mother?”
The question surprised her. She gave me a long, cautious look. “No, not that I remember. Your family’s not Baptist, are y’all?” There was disapproval in her voice, but I ignored it. She decided to be forgiving, since my mother was losing her mind. “You know, we have a healing service on Tuesday nights. You could bring your mother and see if Adam could help. And we’ll add her to our prayer list.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or say thank you. Mama had always taught us that saying thank you was as automatic a response as breathing, even when faced with the impossible. If Adam Hufnagel could drive the neurological demons from my mother’s mind, I’d drag her down here, let Brother Adam lay hands on her, and dance with a snake in my mouth. I decided on politeness. Medicine hadn’t done much yet for Mama; and including her on the prayer list was kind of Tamma. “Thanks. Maybe we will come.” “Prayer heals, Jordy.” We were now on first names. “Acts of God do happen here.” “Really?” I asked. “And have they happened to you? Have they made you free of sin?” Tamma Hufnagel stared at me.
There is a look of defiance people who are terrified can muster. And she did. I thought she wasn’t used to being challenged. Probably most of Brother Adam’s flock wouldn’t say boo to her; being the preacher’s wife made her untouchable. Her mouth set into a thin frown. “Of course not. We’re sinners from birth. Only Jesus offers us a chance at redemption.” “Miz Harcher doesn’t seem to have believed much in the redemption side of the equation,” I observed dryly. “All I ever heard from her was the judgment, the fire, the eternal damnation. I never heard once about the rewards to follow for good behavior.” I paused and realized I needed to keep my tongue in check. Tamma Hufnagel looked at me like I was a pagan dancer for Dionysus, come to town to set up a temple and do a little drunken shimmy. I paused and thought.
If she decided I was getting uppity, she might respond the way most fundamentalists do; with a torrent of words to tell you why you’re wrong and why they’re right. When she spoke, her voice cut with an unexpected edge. “You nonbelievers think you know everything. Well, you don’t.” “I’m not a nonbeliever. I’m a good Episcopalian. And I can’t know anything when people don’t answer questions,” I retorted.
“I guess you’ve got something to hide, Mrs. Hufnagel. I asked you a minute ago if you knew anything about that key Beta Harcher had and you’ve managed to dance around an answer.” Since Baptists don’t approve of dancing period, I thought the very suggestion of her performing any sort of mental terpsichorean activities would annoy her. I didn’t like being rude, but I needed to know what she knew.
She’d made Beta’s list because of some sin she’d committed, and manners weren’t going to prevent my finding out more. It worked; she looked at me like I was a Vacation Bible School student who’d challenged the existence of God. “For your information, Mr. Smarty Pants, Chief Moncrief called my husband and asked him about his key to the library. When Adam checked, it was gone. He kept it on the same ring that he keeps the church keys on, which are here during the day.
It would have been simple for Beta to take Adam’s key. So there’s that mystery solved.” She wore her conviction like a starchy, ill-fitting blouse. “Now will you let me be?” “Adam’s key? I’m sure Junebug found that interesting. And I’m sure he asked you where you and Reverend Hufnagel were last night around ten or so.” She kept the awkward smugness a tad longer. “Of course he did. He wanted to know when Beta could have taken that key. Adam saw her at the church yesterday afternoon around four. He now thinks she might have taken the library key from his office-he said he was talking to Lenny Mauder out in the assembly hall about expanding the parking lot and Beta could’ve gotten into his office then. I met Adam at the church around six for a meeting, we stayed until seven, then we went home, had dinner, and watched John Wayne on cable. Rio Bravo. We were in bed and asleep by ten.” She ignored the implicit suggestion that she or her husband could be a suspect. “That meeting at seven was for the Vacation Bible School group to start planning this summer’s sessions. It was odd that she didn’t show up for the meeting; she’d been adamant about guiding the church’s children along a path of rightousness.” Whata horrible concept. Beta shaping young minds. The keen edge still adhered to Tamma’s voice and I wondered if she hadn’t cared much for Beta herself. “Who else was there?” I asked. “You sound like Chief Moncrief. Why all the questions?” “Why not answer?” I countered. “I’m sure you don’t have any secrets.” “Of course not.” Flustered, she fumbled in the box for a letter. “It’s not a secret at all. I’m just surprised you’re curious. The planning committee was me, Beta, and Janice Schneider. This year Janice and I are doing most of the teaching. Beta took on recruitment.” And pity the parent who didn’t sign up Junior. “I know what a pain she was on the library board. Did she run you ragged on the Vacation Bible School stuff? Want the kids to light fires under their Curious Georges?” “Of course not,” Tamma said quickly for the second time in a minute. “That’s mean of you, Jordy.” I shrugged. “So what else can you tell me about her?” “Nothing new.” Her voice sounded tired and I could tell she wanted to be rid of me. “She could be awfully judgmental at times, but that was her burden. She had a very strong sense of morals. She liked to remind people that there was a definite right and a definite wrong. She’d let them know when they’d failed and what they had to do to make amends.
But people don’t always”-she paused, looking for words-“cotton to advice.” “May I ask when you last saw Miz Harcher?” I asked, trying to get onto less philosophically slippery rocks. “Yesterday afternoon, I guess around two. I knew she’d be upset after your little altercation in the library.” She glanced over at me. “So I stopped by her house, to see if she was feeling better. She was. She’d found strength in the Bible and was studying it.” Studying it or writing down verses to go alongside names? I wondered. “We talked for a while and then I left,” she continued. “You didn’t see anyone else there, did you? Did she have any other visitors?” Tamma Hufnagel finished her task and stood, balancing the box of letters so she wouldn’t drop it again. She looked me dead in the eye and there was nothing shy, afraid, or mousy about her now. The mask was set like old makeup. “Why, yes, she did. Bob Don Goertz stopped by as I was leaving and seemed rather upset. I gather there was some problem between them. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to fix Adam some lunch. Goodbye, Jordy.” She turned and walked into the ugly church. I glanced down at the completed board, MAKING PEACE WITH DEATH. What a lovely invitation. The air now felt moist and hot, as the noontime sun began its drumbeat on the town. I sat in my Blazer for a few minutes, running the air conditioner at arctic blast and watching the leafy oak branches sway in the wind. I didn’t regard Beta Harcher and Tamma Hufnagel as such bosom buddies; they might have been allies, members of the same church, followers of the same version of God, but maybe they just weren’t friends. People who pride themselves on their powers of judging others don’t bond well. There’s always that withholding of true affection, waiting for a sign of human weakness from one that the other can deliberate on. Clearly Beta Harcher rejoiced in finding people deficient in some way, so she could proclaim what awful sinners they were and how bad they needed God-and her guidance. How do you stay friends with a miserable so-and-so like that? I pulled away from the First Baptist Church of Mirabeau. Making peace with death. Tamma Hufnagel seemed to have already done that, and right quick.
4
Icouldn’t stand Bob Don Goertz. Fortunately I only knew him from a distance. Bob Don owned the two biggest car dealerships in Bonaparte County. If you looked up charlatan in the dictionary you might find a bejeweled and polyestered Bob Don leering back at you, ready to shake your hand and arrange financing for your new or quality pre-owned car.
I’m only a bigot toward car dealers; I’ve yet to meet one I like. He replaced Beta on the town’s library board when she got booted. The Hufnagels liked him, which was no recommendation in my book. As soon as Beta got sacked for her reactionary hysterics, Bob Don stated that what America was all about was freedom of the press and he’d sure be delighted to donate his time to the library board The board elected him without a second (or possibly first) thought. Since then he’d been as sweet and as fake as cotton candy to me. I guess he knew I was a force to be reckoned with. Or he wanted to sell me a car. Apparently for Bob Don, running a car dealership was a lot like running for public office. He could smell the winds of change and spit the other way quicker than you could blink his saliva out of your eye. I pulled my Blazer into the quiet dealership, hoping that Bob Don hadn’t dashed off to a cholesterol-filled lunch with the good ol’ boys. I parked, stepped out of the car, and made it about three feet before a fat, balding salesman arrowed toward me. Telling him as we hustled along that I wasn’t buying, but was just there to see Bob Don, I swerved and made it roughly twenty feet before a younger fellow with huge sideburns and bad teeth attempted a verbal tackle, offering to let me test-drive a Bronco. Nimbly avoiding him and his sales pitch, I made it to the air-conditioned showroom. With a plea to use the bathroom, I pushed past another sweaty salesman and got into Bob Don’s inner sanctum. A gum-chewing, beehived receptionist examined me critically before picking up her phone and announcing me to the King of the Road.
